


sacrifice

by annejumps



Category: Split (2016), Split - Fandom
Genre: Age Difference, F/M, Fantasy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-02
Updated: 2017-02-02
Packaged: 2018-09-21 12:55:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 807
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9550103
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/annejumps/pseuds/annejumps
Summary: Miss Patricia told him to be good.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Spoilers for _Split_. Best if you've already seen the movie. If you don't want to read explicit fic about the characters in _Split_ , this is your warning (besides the tag) to not read any further.

He sits at the kitchen table, and thinks. 

It’s night, and the sacred food is asleep, dreaming unblemished dreams, dreams of innocence. Maybe they were afraid, perhaps they had nightmares, but none of that leaves them marked or sullied. Not like Kevin’s nightmares, the ones Dennis tried to guard them all from, until the dam burst and he couldn’t anymore.

The food sleeps, and he thinks about them: 

The dark-haired one’s eyes are always soft with terror and rimmed with tears, but she’d made herself filthy rather than dance with him and he didn’t want to touch her anymore, even though her skin had been soft and she’d smelled so good. 

The blonde one was pretty enough, but brittle, and she’s now weak with terror, and although it’s hard not to think about her pristine white lace bra—so clean, so bright—she’s in the dusty, dirty storage room now. 

The last one, the mistake, has the prepared room to herself now, both beds. She’s alone in there, now. He thinks of her dark eyes, staring right through him, the way her chest heaved with her panicked breaths, the way she bit her lip but never looked away.

He gets up.

And then stops.

Miss Patricia told him to be good.

He can’t spoil the food.

He thinks of her stretched out on the cot, long hair swept aside to bare the curve of her neck, her smooth collarbone.

As he walks, his palms curl in anticipation of weighing the curves of her breasts; his fingers tremble at the thought of her nipples hard against his skin. His steps are measured, slow, but he keeps walking. 

Almost at the door. He stops, closing his eyes. 

He can’t spoil the food. He can’t make her unclean and impure. What if the other two aren’t enough after all, what if the Beast needs her too? 

It wouldn’t be spoiling her if she wanted him there.

He leans his forehead against the door, and rests his hand flat against it, letting his breath out in a long, slow, quiet sigh.

He’d strip her down—No, he’d make her take her clothes off—No, she’d do it willingly. For him. To show him. 

She’d take off those layers—she wears so many layers, he doesn’t know why. She’d take them all off and she’d reveal herself, pale and perfect and unblemished and warm and wanting, waiting to be touched. 

Maybe no one’s touched her that way before, maybe she’d trust him enough to do it. She’d look at him with those big dark eyes and she wouldn’t say a word, she’d just let him touch.

He closes his eyes.

_It’s hard, at first, to picture her dancing, but then he sees it: flowers in her long hair, the weight of her breasts evident as she moves. He sees the dip of her navel, the swell of her hips. He’s never seen her smile, but he sees it now._

_She smiles at him; she collapses with a laugh, exhausted from the dance, in sun-drenched grass. She reaches for him and he crawls to her on his hands and knees, naked too, kissing his way up her leg, gentle and slow, pressing his lips to the inside of her knee._

_She parts her thighs for him, and he kisses his way over that smooth, soft, tender, perfect skin, unmarked and precious._

_(He shudders, leaning on the door, as he imagines resisting the urge to bite her, crushing the desire to leave a bruise there, a token, a tribute marring that velvet skin but he won’t, he won’t.)_

_He kisses his way to the juncture of her thighs, and tastes her. She is utterly perfect, and she arches up against him, crying out, shuddering, gasping as he licks and sucks at her, plunges his tongue inside her, worships her. His fingers press into her skin, but he leaves no bruises._

_She draws him up to her, kisses him, guides him inside her. She wraps her arms around him, her legs too, keeping him close; she wants him, she needs him._

Opening his eyes, he stares at the door in the dim light, and has to slow his breathing. He wills his erection to go down. 

He can’t go in there and—and do anything like that. She’s food, sacred food—she doesn’t want that, and he’d mar her, make her unsuitable. He’d make her unclean. The Beast needs her, they all need this. Miss Patricia…. There’s no way Miss Patricia would allow this. And she’d find out. She always does.

He inhales, straightening up, and turns to walk back. He’s alone—well, in a certain sense—and it’s dark, and cold, and quiet. He doesn’t want to think again about that sunny field, about what she’d be like underneath him. So he doesn’t, anymore.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to [thedesertviking](http://thedesertviking.tumblr.com/) for reading this over!


End file.
